She Hates Me
by PallaPlease
Summary: [Flickfic side-story]  At one point or another, Hitomi Kanzaki came to the conclusion that her marriage was in flames - literally.  [Dilandau/Hitomi; what-if.]  Complete?


She Hates Me  
--~--  
Summary: At one point or another, Hitomi Kanzaki came to the conclusion that her marriage was in flames - literally. [Dilandau/Hitomi; what-if.] To tithe 'Paradox' fans over. ;]  
Author's Notes: This is more or less a side story to a large fanfic I've been working on erratically for the past six or seven months, set after the film (Dilandau/Hitomi, of course), but all you really need to know is Dilandau is stuck on Earth, he and Hitomi are married, and this is probably a teaser for my fic-in-progress. *winks* As for inspiration, I hadn't worked seriously on anything Escaflowne for several months, and hadn't even read any fics for it in that same span of time, and then...I heard Puddle of Mud's 'She Hates Me.' Is it not perfect for a D/H comedic-romance?   
Disclaimer: The characters do not belong to me. Anyone who says otherwise is a lying aardvark and you should pummel them with large blunt objects. The lyrics and title are not mine either, but this story is. There. I'm done. Do I get a chocolate frog for being a good author? *cute look*  
--~--  
She f***in' hates me/  
Trust/  
She f***in' hates me/  
La la la love/  
Love/  
I tried too hard/  
And she tore my/  
Feelings like I had none/  
And ripped them away  
  
-Puddle of Mud, 'She Hates Me'  
--~--  
  
He shifted, very carefully so as not to smash the eggs, the heavy bags of groceries in his arms, trying to balance the brown packages between his hip and his lower arm, and fumbled with the key ring in his hand. Peering over the offensive red carnations poking out of the peak of one of the bags, he glimpsed the desired key and stilled his fingers before he lost it. A cloud of billowing white mist came from his mouth when he exhaled, another reminder of the chill winter setting in the New York area - he wished it was one of those lovely summers America had, all sweltering heat and overwhelming humidity - and he firmly stabbed the key into its place in the doorknob of their - oh, great, he thought with a snort, here comes that fuzzy feeling in my stomach - townhouse. A twist of his wrist that nearly upended the groceries resulted in an audible click, and he leaned his weight against the door, staggering inside as it swung open, his fingers plucking the key out of the slot. Planting his ebony boot on the inside of the wood, he slammed the door shut and hurried into the kitchen thankfully connected to the small front hall, dumping his burden onto the oval table. "Bite me, Murphy!" he declared cheerfully, invoking the name of the sorceror his wife seemed to curse daily. Privately, he held the man in the highest regard, respecting his ability to not only create a spell of havoc that would determine everything might go wrong, but a spell that apparently lasted past his death. What a horrible person, he grinned wolfishly, pulling the carnations out and tearing clumsily at the plastic wrapping enclosing them.  
  
An elegant vase, clear and swan-like, was chosen for a variety of reasons, one being the obviously faux silk flowers in it and the uselessness of them, and another being that it was the only vase he could see. The silk flowers were removed and the crimson ones deposited inside, with a dose of water to preserve their beauty, and he returned to rummaging through the food items. It took him perhaps five minutes to fill the refrigerator and a few of the cabinets in the small kitchen, his skills at housework having increased greatly over the many days spent idling at home.  
  
Not that he was upset about having to let his wife earn the income; she /was/ a rather good track coach, especially in those itsy-bitsy shorts she wore in the spring, and it would be absolutely fun to see her in them year-round, but he was digressing. And, really, he was fine, aside from the boredom, the ban on magicks of any sort, and the matches being locked inside the Things Dilandau Will Not Play With, Barring Accidents Of An Apocalyptic Nature cabinet. He eyed said cabinet longingly, untwisting his black scarf and shedding the loose green coat she had forced on him in November, and he dropped the items on one of the pair of delicate iron-wrought chairs at the mahogany table, picking at his white gloves and peeling them from his slender ivory fingers. Grabbing the paper bags and the silk flowers, he crushed them together systematically, in smooth, restrained motions, and tapped the clumsy ball, setting it at a place of honor on the counter by the sink. "It's too cold," he complained, hunching over in his scarlet sweater and glaring evilly at the thermostat, which informed him in very simple digits the temperature inside was no lower than seventy-five degrees Fahrenheit. Using magick to raise the warmth inside would probably not fall under the filing of 'useful,' like the spell he used to speak and understand English, and he really hated that hideous floral couch with its lumpy upholstery. He was not going to sleep on that damn thing for the tenth time in the past three weeks, come Van, high water, and other things he was not particularly fond of.  
  
Finally, after what had to have been several minutes of wrinkling his arms over his sweater and rubbing his boots inconspicuously on the tiled floor, he skitted across to the thermostat, changing it quickly to eight-five and smiling blissfully. "Happy, happy," he chanted, casting his red gaze to the microwave set up in the far corner, recognizing the displayed time as '4:04 PM' and mentally counting off the time left before his wife came home: one hour and thirty-two minutes.  
  
Well, what was he going to do while she was gone? Dilandau's eyes were pulled in the direction of the wadded ball resting temptingly on the counter. Couch bad, he reminded himself forcibly, couch is very bad.  
  
--  
  
She could feel the tears stinging at her jewel green eyes and she rolled her lower lip into her mouth, biting it gently to stop the reaction as she glanced at the digital numerals on the dashboard. Oh, God, she wailed silently, it's seven. Her fingers tightened on her arms, pressing the slick softness of her turtleneck to her skin, and she forced the pain to the pit of her gut, turning in the passenger seat to smile thinly at the man driving down the road that led to her street. "Thanks, again, Jeff," she tried, relaxing her arms and feeling on the pebbled floor for the strap of her hefty duffel. "I'm really sorry I had to bother you; I didn't know my car would break down."  
  
Jeff, a fellow teacher, waved his hand dismissively, smiling kindly through his carefully maintained goatee, hair a dark brown, and he said in an understanding manner, "Are you going to be okay?" She turned her head around, hauling her duffel into her lap over her sandy slacks, and blinked, golden hair hanging loosely around her upper arms. "Sorry," he apologized easily, making a motion asking if this was her street, and she nodded. "You just looked unhappy. Everything okay at home?"  
  
Her cheeks exploded into flame, and she felt a slightly welcome longing to see her husband settle in her chest and the pit of her belly. "Oh, yeah, it's fine," she sighed, her Japanese accent lightly tinging her words as she gestured briefly with her hand at her house. "I was planning on being home hours ago. My husband and I were supposed to watch a movie together," and she found it was incredibly difficult to stay in her seat as her acquaintance locked the car into a parked position. Picking the seatbelt free from its clamp, she smiled quickly, "Have a safe evening, Jeff!"   
  
"He's French, right?" he called as she clambered up the few cement steps to her front door, and she glanced over her thin shoulder to see him leaning slightly out of the driver's window. Confused, she fingered strands of silken hair out of her eyes and nodded slowly, to maintain the cover she had concocted of his nationality, and he replied, in a tone she could not grasp, "Must be romantic."   
  
Smirking a bit, laughing inwardly, she answered wryly, "More like fiery," and he chuckled lowly, uncomfortably, rolling the window up and shifting out of the parking space. "Odd," she muttered, pausing to stare at the red Toyota parked a fraction off kilter in the spaces allotted their townhouse, musing at the expense of her own car staying overnight at the garage. It was a wonder they managed to do so well as it was on her salary, but this could be another obstacle. In a worried motion, she rubbed her thumb along the smooth gold curve of her wedding band, facing the door and feeling a wave of emotions, drifting from deep affection to wary expectation, and she threw her shoulders back.   
  
"You are Hitomi Kanzaki-Albatou," she said firmly, as if gathering the strings of her courage and knitting them together hastily. Just to be sure, she added, "Hitomi Kanzaki-Albatou, a goddess." Yes, that was much better, and she tossed her hair back, grasping the duffel strongly and turning the doorknob glinting coppery gold under the watery light of the tall streetlight, knowing he always kept the door unlocked for her - with, of course, warding spells erected for safety along the stern wooden frame. She creaked it open, her bravery momentarily failing her, and she stepped inside with subdued footsteps, closing it at her back with a gentle click.  
  
A burst of stifling warm air struck her and Hitomi froze, skin warming swiftly from the bitter cold outside in the heat filling the house resolutely. Slipping her duffel stiffly to the floor, she unwound the coat arms tied about her waist and, draping it over her arm, wandered into the kitchen, wondering at the lack of lights other than the small one above the stove. In the adjoined den, the television was babbling mutely, a cacophony of voices deliberately placed low, but she ignored it for the time being. The thermostat, she found without much difficulty, had been shifted ten degrees up, and she frowned, moving to it and tapping it back down to the reasonable seventy-five she had set it at before leaving in the morn.   
  
And then she saw what he had done to her lovely table display.   
  
Gone were the hand-pressed silk flowers her brother had mailed for Christmas, a pleasant memory of the beautiful things left in her homeland, replaced with a lopsided arrangement of tellingly red carnations, bright and blood-colored and absolutely-not-in-any-single-way silk. In a way, it was a sweet gesture for him to do something so unusually romantic as buying flowers when his standard procedure was to sneak a flammable material into the house, but it was yet another chip at her already worn patience for the day. The students had been unruly, lunch had been ruined, her car had broken down, and--oh! Swirling on her heel, the three-inch bold heel of her fashionable boots, sneakers being zipped inside the dark depths of her bag, squeaking threateningly on the tiles, she - a veritable goddess, an Olympic-quality runner, and, perhaps most importantly, an enraged wife - stormed into the den, her lips curved into a thin frown.  
  
He was reclining on the couch - she hoped he liked that couch, too, because, ooo, he was going to be sleeping there for a while! - decorated with browned floral designs, his red sweater and sheer black pants starkly contrasting with his fairy-pale skin and wavy silver hair, a plastic bowl of ice cream clutched in his hands, spoon jutting from between his round, bloodless lips. That pair of breathtaking garnet eyes - which she swore were not giving her excited goosebumps - he possessed swiveled to her, alighting with amusement and happiness and sardonic cruelty, and she was proud of herself for not melting or shrinking back at that gaze. Plucking the spoon from his mouth and stabbing it in the hills of the chocolate-drenched vanilla, Dilandau smoothly moved his body into a relaxed sitting position, one long hand patting the cushion beside him with a surprisingly frosty air. "How nice of you to show up for our evening together," he said in a pointedly saccharine voice, switching to the language he insisted was Gaian, but was obviously Japanese.  
  
"What did you do with my silk flowers?" she demanded, halting a few feet from the couch in the fore of the television, lit from behind by the blue-tinged glow. Her hands came to her hips in a punctuating motion and she gave him her most dangerous look, which was rather more of a slightly angry pout. He shifted uncomfortably, playing with the spoon, and she saw the lean muscles in his body quiver as they always did when he had a secret his maniacal side was desperate to spill. It was about this time that she noted the minty scent in the air, a soft fragrance both delicate and delicious, and she leveled the greatest of all female powers, the Look Of Doom, at him. The level of success it brought forth was questionable, depending on one's perspective.  
  
"Burned them!" he finally cried happily, looking for all the world like a child receiving his first peppermint stick, and she mused at how her husband could be so horribly stupid sometimes. Or quite possibly just insane, but either way it was somewhat pitiful how he could never fully maintain his bizarre urges. "It's not my fault, though," he added quickly, inanely.  
  
"Yes, it is!" argued Hitomi, dropping her arms from her hips and glaring at his cute expression, vowing to remain strong. "You used magick to set something on fire, which are two things you are forbidden from!"  
  
He rolled his eyes, face switching into his selfish, bratty version, whining mockingly, "'Forbidden!'" She flushed again, her aggravation rising as he twisted his wrist in a rudely forgetful way. "That's a fun thing to do, isn't it, not let me do anything I want. Well, I don't want to play your game anymore, pretty bitchy goddess!" Before she could cry out at him for his choice of words, a word that was not a word blazed in her mind, strong and powerful and enticing, and somehow she ended up sprawled in his lap, and, startled, her slim arms wrapped around his neck as the cold of the bowl pierced her turtleneck, heavy and chill against her abdomen. For a moment, the word/feeling/summon echoed in her body and the scent of mint flushed up her nose, filling her head with a lightness, and she saw the last faint traces of green light trickle from his skin.  
  
"Cheater," she mumbled, blinking hard to rid herself of the delectable mint and the irresistable tug of the spell. Almost absently, she pinched his earlobe and he wrinkled his nose at her, not yet done.  
  
"You've locked up all the things," he explained in a condescending tone, his voice tilting childishly, "the matches, the knives, the spellbooks your grandmother gave to /me/ not you--"  
  
"You do bad things with those," she retorted weakly, trying to wriggle off of his lap and stopping when she saw the playfully lusting glint in his eyes, her face reddening for the umpteenth time that day.  
  
A touch of slippery cold pressed on the side of her neck and she yelped, flinching her shoulder up defensively, and he had the nerve to grin cattily. "I do bad things with ice cream, too," Dilandau informed her and she pinched his ear again, sharply, but he merely shook her fingers off his ear and touched his mouth to the spot of chocolate-streaked white on her soft neck.   
  
"Ah!" Hitomi gasped, surprised, feeling a strong blush whip through her body when a rough wetness tapped her skin, fingers clawing at his back in accepting protest. "This isn't fair!"  
  
"No," he answered, voice muffled by her skin, though she found it was not as vastly important as it might have been a minute ago as he shifted her from his legs onto the couch. "It isn't. But, oh well, I've got magick, you don't, and this stupid piece of furniture is much more comfortable when we're both on it."  
  
"Hn," she answered dazedly. She supposed he might be right...  
  
--  
  
"Damn you to hell!"   
  
An obscured clong, as though something metal had been struck hard, emerged from the kitchen and she steadfastly ignored it, snuggling deeper into the woven blanket someone had kindly tucked over her body. She was undeniably cozy between the blanket and the couch, her knees curled meagerly toward her chest and her face pillowed on a rumpled sweater gathered into a lump. Sleepily, after several seconds of grumbling silence, she recognized the voice as being her husband's when he was in a rather feisty mood, and she tried momentarily to ask him to avoid destroying anything, but failed on the principle of contented slumber. It was pleasant, hovering in the realm bordering sleep and waking, feeling dreamy as her limbs felt heavy, fingers peeking from beneath the blanket to brush the rough fabric of the couch.   
  
Eyes closed, fair eyelashes sweeping her cheek, Hitomi fuzzily wondered how she had managed to wind up sleeping on the couch, and she smacked her lips, deciding it was not a pressing matter. A shaft of cooler air struck her hip when she rolled off of her side onto her back, piercing a small hole in the blanket, and she wrinkled her eyebrows together as if working out a puzzle. Why on Earth was she naked, under a blanket, on a couch, sleeping on - she cracked open her eyes and slowly sat up, glancing at the makeshift pillow to determine it - her own personal psychotic's favorite sweater? "Oh, my God," she uttered, bolting upright and desperately clutching at the blanket before it could fall down her torso.   
  
Not only had she let him get away with breaking rules put into place for protection, but she'd actually let him.../ravish/ her on the couch he was supposed to sleep on, alone, without her and certainly without the ravishing part! Biting back a wave of depressed anger, she unwound her arm from its covered position and checked the simple watch miraculously left on her wrist. Forlornly, she studied the quartet of ones and considered the blessing of it at least being Saturday, dropping her arm down sadly. Had she no backbone? "No," she said in a countering voice, "he's just a jerk who can't stand to lose." And speaking of losing, where were her clothes?   
  
Being the meticulous semi-dragon he was, he must have taken her clothing and stuffed it away in the laundry room. On the other hand, he might just have felt like being a bastard, thusly leaving her nothing but her watch and his sweater. She grabbed the red fabric and yanked it over her head, grateful for his height and her own slender smallness as the hemmed edge of it hung past her hips, nearly mid-thigh. Standing carefully, she winced, stretching out tensed muscles and haphazardly checking the drapes had been pulled across the back window in the den, not wanting to be seen by one of the teenaged boys living next door with the Hanksons.   
  
She found him in the kitchen, grappling with a plastic spatula showing signs of possibly snapping in half from the pressure he was applying to the wide skillet he held pinned to the stovetop. If he felt any pain from his palm being pushed against the heat of the metal, he was doing quite well at not showing it, but he /was/ cursing steadily, in a cracking, rasping voice that was dangerously calm, at the cooking device. Half of what he was saying was completely illogical, primarily a few choice references to the lineage of the skillet - one being a rather mortifying selection of terms generally used for prostitution, and she was irritated to discover her smoldering dislike was beginning to give way to the idiotic humor of the situation. He really was inept when it came to cooking, especially things involving the words 'pancake' and 'batter.' Crazy, lovable moron: her husband in three words. Sexy, too, she reprimanded herself, and she blushed at her own wayward thoughts.  
  
"Die!" he snapped, preparing to utilize magick and rid their home of another one of those damned technologies she adored, and he spotted her from the corner of his eye, instantly halting his motions. "'Morning, bitch!" Dilandau greeted brightly, his lack of tact showing once more, and she gritted her teeth in aggravation. "Beautiful thighs. Being a temptress this morning, are we?"   
  
"You stole my clothes," she accused loftily, moving to slip past him and up the stairs in the entrance hall to claim better wear. "I had no say in it."  
  
Grabbing her 'round the waist and abandoning his war with the kitchen, he admitted, "Precisely. I was going to make you pancakes," and he somehow hoisted her into his arms, paying no heed to her protesting shriek and kissing her firmly.   
  
"You're burning them," she said into his mouth and he pulled away, once more not paying mind to her words and still holding her tightly in his arms.  
  
"--but, since you're such a provocative bitch," he continued, and she smacked the side of his head roughly, all but growling at his crude term, "I want you."  
  
"In the /kitchen/?" she nearly screamed, her green eyes fixing on his red ones in a form of horror, displeased to note the affirmative glow on his face. "No! That's just...it's...no!"  
  
"Why?" he questioned reasonably, tightening his grip and leaning closer to her face, smirking the cocky twist of his lips that usually resulted in someone trying to hit him. "We were on the couch last night, and then the floor, and then the couch again, and--"  
  
Hitomi slapped him as hard as she could with her arms pinned disadvantageously by his more defined arms, relishing for all of five seconds the stunned and slightly peeved glare on his face before she was dropped to the floor. While it had been her goal in the first place, her tailbone stung and she stood with a grimace, avoiding his heated snarl as she turned elegantly on her heel, stepping lightly into the entrance hall and ascending the first three steps. "I," she pronounced in a queenly voice, "will be bathing and preparing for the Teacher's Ball tonight at the Southeast Winchester hotel lobby, where I will be participating in the auction." She stressed the 'in' noticeably, and he narrowed his eyes, having been unaware of this development in the occasion he had known of for the previous month. "We leave at five and I will not accept any stunts from you." And with that, she turned her head away and vanished up the staircase.  
  
"You aren't even wearing the proper damn attire for a ball!" he yelled, wondering what, exactly, the particulars of this 'auction' were. "You people have no idea what such functions require!" She gave him no reply and, glaring evilly at the skillet, he expressed his anger in a mature manner: the slab of metal was tossed into the wall with enough force to dent the paper-coated plaster, flickers of green light emanating from his body.  
  
'Auction.' Probably another one of those shitty customs that butchered every ancient ritual known to man.  
  
--  
  
Had Dilandau known the auction begun at eight in the glittering, royal lobby of the Southeast Winchester Hotel involved a man paying money to spend the remainder of the evening - which, according to the folded handout given at the start of the formal event, would be until midnight, in accordance to the moronic 'fairy tale' theme - with /HIS/ /WIFE/, he would have broken into the contents of the Open And Die cabinet and brought several nastily sharp items in order to surgically remove bits of the Jeff Longhue fellow that 'purchased' Hitomi Kanzaki-Albatou. His wife! Paid for so Jeff could dance with her and keep her from /him/ all night! Treated like a common /whore/! He was going to frickin' kill the damn man, and he was going to do it with an uncommon patience, just like he wanted to. And /then/ he was going to grab Hitomi, /his/ wife, /his/ mate, and, if she had to be a whore, then she was /his/ whore by the gods, and he was going to remind her she was married to /him./ Not that weasel of a man with slick facial hair and an abundant amount of grease in the rest of his follicles.  
  
And why she had blatantly ordered him before she went to stand for the auction to not bid was completely beyond him, so he glowered at the tremendously long buffet table, stabbing his fork viciously into carved pieces of steak and wishing they had at least left some of the blood in. A few of the wives, abandoned by their husbands as they bid on the female faculty left on the auction, elbowed each other as they watched him, giggling breathlessly when he paused to stare at them. Flashing a gorgeous smile, he returned to piling his plate with disappointingly cooked meat and felt a preen of vain pride when they gasped happily and continued giggling appreciatively. It was a welcome boost to his sulking ego, and he regained the confidence that his wife would never be able to resist him. With five horribly small steaks - what was with these people and their obsession with absurdly reduced food in massive servings? - on his china plate, he turned to reclaim his seat at one of the several circular tables on the sparkling floor.   
  
He never made it back to his seat, for he saw Jeff - the arrogant monstrosity, he was going to rip his intestines out and shove them down his /throat/ - laughing with Hitomi, who was smiling thinly at him, a lit cigarette in his hand, and his arm was around her shoulder, and then, infringing on her personal space, he leaned forward and kissed her.   
  
One of the women turned to comment on the fragrant mint cologne Mr. Albatou was wearing the split second before hell broke loose.  
  
--  
  
"Get in the car!" she screamed, clawing at the handle on the driver's side and ripping the metal door open, throwing herself bodily into the seat. He obeyed, albeit angrily, and she made as if to rant, saying furiously, "You are incredibly lucky everyone thinks he dropped his cigarette in his drink, because that is exactly the kind of thing you are forbidden from doing magick for!"  
  
"Like it's my fault the bastard was flammable," he argued, jerking forcefully at the passenger seatbelt and slamming it into place.   
  
An inarticulate, strangled scream pulled forth from her mouth and she jerked the key in the ignition, managing to pull the car out of the parking lot. "And," she added, once she sewed her composure back together enough to speak, "you are even more lucky he wasn't seriously burned, since that would have led to police showing up and the further ruining of my evening!"  
  
"Lucky for you, maybe," Dilandau sneered, crossing her arms over his red satin dress shirt, planting his shined black shoes on the dashboard in spite of her quelling look. "What I can't understand is why you did that auction thing and let him buy you like he would a prostitute! And he was holding you as if you were his possession, and I don't give a shit if I'm being too territorial, because you are /my/ mate, and he kissed you!" The mint smell clung to his clothes viciously, strongly, thicker than it had been in years from the unexpected explosiveness of its use after months of careful, minor doses. "I am sick of giving things up for you!"  
  
"Ha!" she snorted derisively, cutting another car off with an abrupt spin of the wheel, running through a light switching from warning yellow to red. "You want to talk about things given up for someone else?" Judging the question to be rhetoric, he remained quiet, though he radiated malcontent feelings, thick and enraged. "Fine!   
  
"You appear one day at the college in Virginia I'm attending," her voice grew deceptively calm, a lilting monotone refusing to betray her internalized turmoil, "and I'm stuck with you, as my Anglo-American grandmother insists it's part of some prophecy when I, having nothing else to do, bring you home to her house in downtown Woodbridge."  
  
"I know this already," he replied irritably, eyes gleaming frighteningly in the darkness of wintry night.  
  
Hitomi continued as if he had never spoken. "Not only do we somehow end up in a relationship, but it turns out that, as the Wing Goddess, I end up purifying your dragon blood so you can sprout those wings you want so badly. I dated one other guy in college, I got married as soon as I graduated, and I didn't go back home to Japan like I wanted, because Gaia was a Western culture and you'd fit in easier in America. I can't socialize with people, you never listen to my instructions, and you set one of my coworkers on /fire/ with /magick/!"  
  
She turned her head, easing on the throttle, and he opened his mouth to say something rude, something hurtful, and she slapped him, hard, with her free hand, leaving a sharp burning on his face. In a voice that was far gentler than her touch had been, serving only to bemuse his derailed thoughts further, she said, returning her attention wisely to the road, "We'll work past this, but I think we should be alone tonight."  
  
Which meant he was definitely sleeping alone on the couch.  
  
--  
  
In the solace of the inky night, his bare feet resting on the textured carpeting of the den, he held the angular bottle of vodka by its curved neck, eyeing it dubiously. He was rarely a man for the consumption of alcohol, but the moonlight catching the amber bottle through the window, drapes pulled back, made it look so very comforting. If he remembered correctly, vodka was highly flammable, and his face, made taut by the mind-engulfing unhappiness, slowly twisted into a fiendish grin. At the very least, he could entertain thoughts of wonderfully ghoulish flames, and he drew himself to his feet, standing at his full height and padding into the kitchen. Setting the vodka bottle on the table, he watched it in the stove's dim white light, chewing on his lower lip agitatedly.  
  
It would be so very easy to break into the Forbidden Stuff cabinet and remove the matches, since she would figure out he used magick if he did, and he took a few careful, crouching steps in the cabinet's direction, fingers reaching out to grasp the lock when--  
  
"Dilandau?" came Hitomi's voice, tentative and tender, as if she was screwing up her courage while simultaneously holding a nugget of knowledge in her hand. He froze and, after a few seconds, swerved around, clapping his hands together in an elaborate display of innocence.  
  
"I wasn't going to steal the matches!" he defended, trying to determine her emotional state and the odds of ensuing pain. "I'm getting a glass of cold water!"   
  
She slid across the floor and he felt a sinking feeling in his stomach, knowing she was going to exile him to that accursed couch for the next three months. Grabbing his collar in a firm grip, she yanked his head down and crushed her lips to his, causing him to lose his balance, sending them both sprawling to the tiled floor. What the gods damned hall was she do--well, okay, if she was going to stick her tongue in his mouth and be so hungry about it, who was he to say she couldn't do what she wanted? Maybe, his mind supplied blurrily, she was trying to suffocate him with kisses, in which case, he had to fight right back.  
  
When Dilandau's lips and hands threatened to become a little too amorous, his fingers plucking at the buttons on her pajama top quickly, she pushed his shoulders lightly and he reluctantly pulled back, his features tousled and a little too aroused for her to comfortably feel he wouldn't interrupt what she needed to tell him. "Dilandau," she repeated his name, and his mouth lowered to the dip in her neck, nibbling happily at her skin, "stop it! I'm trying to tell you something!"  
  
"And then can we have sex?" he murmured without a hint of care in his words, licking the chosen spot on her neck and devoutly refusing to leave it.   
  
"Dilandau," Hitomi groaned, from both exasperation and another more sinful emotion, "I'm pregnant." His mouth left her neck and he, legs entangled with hers and red eyes glittering like rubies, stared at her, sufficiently shocked.  
  
He hoped Murphy was burning in /hell./  
  
--~--  
AN-the-Second: I hope it was okay...*sweatdrops and fidgets* Would you mind terribly if I asked ya'll to review? It would be incredibly appreciated...  
  
Murphy = Murphy's Law: anything that /can/ go wrong, /will/ go wrong. And it's not that Dilandau wouldn't want to be a dad...so much as he wouldn't want to share Hitomi with the kid. *laughs* As for Dilandau being referred to as French by Jeff Longhue (*sticks tongue out at Jeff*), 'Dilandau Albatou' struck me as being a very French-sounding name when I was trying to decide on a 'cover nationality' while writing the flickfic this is sprawled from. Just so you know. *winks* And, yes, I know it's supposed to be psychokinesis in the movie, but, frag it, I like magick better. Yay!  
  
Feel the OOC! 


End file.
